


Stuck

by bigblueboxat221b



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Don't copy to another site, Homelessness, Hurt Greg Lestrade, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mycroft To The Rescue, Protective Mycroft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-13
Updated: 2019-10-24
Packaged: 2020-06-27 12:33:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19790971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: Things aren't great for Greg right now, but they're about to get a lot worse. Fortunately Mycroft is there to help pick up the pieces.





	1. Chapter 1

What a fuck of a day. There was no other way to describe it, really. The Karambal case had bounced back to him after Vice decided it shouldn’t be theirs – a complicated case Greg would frankly love anyone to take off his hands. If only one of the brothers had been involved in organised crime or something, and he could hand it off to Mycroft or Interpol or somebody.

Add to that a good old fashioned reaming from his boss – as though it was up to Greg to ask nicely so people stopped murdering each other – and a pair of Detective Sergeants so new the ink was still wet on their paperwork, and Greg wanted nothing more than to crash out on his sofa. Preferably alone, but he’d even settle for ‘with my girlfriend as long as she’s not pissed about something’.

Moving in with Trisha had been a good idea according to nobody, if Greg remembered correctly. His divorce was still fresh, his furniture second-hand or non-existent; she’d been nice enough, and apparently eager to sleep with him. How low his standards had dropped, he’d thought at the time, boxing up the few personal possessions he still cared enough about to move into her place. The fact that it was only a couple of blocks from work was a bonus.

Of course, things had gone sour long before he’d managed to unpack all his boxes, but by then, he was stuck. No money to speak of, with most of his income going on things to keep Trisha happy, and almost everything the flat was hers anyway. Not that he would have had time to look for a new place, or the energy to move somewhere. Instead he just put on the footy when he got home and tried to filter out her complaining as best he could. The regular sex had petered out too; the best he could manage now was a quiet wank in the shower, and then only rarely. Trisha hated the idea of him ‘touching himself’. She made it sound as though he was doing something disgusting, or illegal. It wasn’t like she was prepared to touch him, though Greg didn’t ever point that out anymore. The once was enough.

This morning she’d been almost nice, which meant there was milk left for his coffee and she hadn’t sneered at him when he’d half-heartedly wished her a good day. A small flare of hope – _maybe she does want me_ – burned in him, and it flickered anew as he walked slowly home. Maybe she’d be waiting for him and they could order a takeaway and cuddle on the couch. Christ, his standards _had_ fallen, if that was the kind of thing he was fantasising about. Pathetic, really. Gone were the days of him hoping to meet someone in a bar, have a few rounds of energetic sex before dawn and part ways the next day. He was older now, and a lot greyer. Maybe it was ‘realistic’ instead of ‘pathetic’.

Sighing, Greg trudged up the stairs, fitting his key in the lock. It stuck, which made him frown – they’d changed the locks when he’d moved in, so it should turn smoothly.

He tried again – the key slid in, but would not turn. Blinking at it, his eye was caught by a pile of boxes by the front door. One had a familiar hand scrawled across the side. _Family stuff_ , he’d written, before folding the tops over and lugging it up to Trisha’s flat.

Frowning, Greg flicked the top open, seeing his own belongings inside. What the hell? The other boxes had what looked like the rest of his things – clothes, books, his favourite mug.

“Trisha?” Greg called, knocking on the door. He waited, heart sinking but refusing to believe it.

“Go away, Greg,” she called from the other side of the door. “Take your stuff and piss off.”

“What?” he said stupidly, still fighting the evidence in front of him. “What the hell, Trisha!”

“It’s over,” she said, her voice flat and bored. “All your stuff’s there, I sure as hell don’t want any of it. The flat’s mine, I don’t want to see you again. How hard is that to understand?”

“Right,” Greg said, his brain on autopilot. “Fine.”

He looked at the boxes, wondering how he was going to get everything out to the street, let alone…he had no idea where. Where the hell was he going to stay? He hand no family in the city, no friends to speak of. A hotel would be okay for a week or two, but after that, he’d have to find somewhere. Looking at the boxes – the small pile of belongings that marked the entirety of his life – Greg felt pathetic. He blinked fiercely, not allowing the tears to break. He would not cry, not here. Not outside the flat of the only person he’d thought would tolerate him outside of work. And now even that proved to be untrue.

Lugging the boxes to the street took him fifteen minutes or so. It made him feel marginally better – further away from Trisha, and at least it was doing something – but after that, he had nothing. Pulling out his phone, Greg scrolled through, searching for a hotel nearby. Hopefully he’d be able to grab a taxi to take his boxes. God knew how long they’d last sitting here. He was half surprised Trisha hadn’t tried to sell his stuff. A faint vein of decency must exist in her, then. Maybe.

He’d typed in ‘Ho’ in his contacts, and before he could press the ‘t’, his phone had narrowed down the list of matches. Pausing, Greg looked at it.

_Holmes, Sherlock_

_Holmes, M_

_Hotel Grand_

_Hotel McInnes_

The hotels were placed he’d stayed during those times he and his wife had been working things through – both close, both cheap, both depressing as hell.

Sherlock was significantly more appealing than either of the hotels. At least John might let him kip on their sofa for a bit, though it would kill his back. Or maybe if he played his cards right, he could convince John to finally tell Sherlock he was in love with the mad git, and they’d both sleep in Sherlock’s bed, leaving John’s free…

Christ, now he really was desperate. Trying to engineer his mate into a relationship so he could get a decent nights’ sleep.

Crossing Sherlock off the list left him with one option. Someone he had not considered, and an interesting option. It was enough for Greg to stare at his phone, the idea rattling around his brain for a while.

Mycroft. The number was secret enough that he’d not been allowed to connect Mycroft’s name with it; he only had the initial there to differentiate it from Sherlock. Their relationship, while technically professional, had been known to blur the lines. A late night drink, a dark car from a crime scene through the rain to Greg’s flat. A shared smile at some idiosyncrasy of Sherlock’s, Greg always imagining their fondness for the mad detective might bond them just a little. Not that Mycroft ever gave that impression; it was only that he didn’t think many people indulged Sherlock’s whims. Certainly not many who also tolerated the company of Mycroft.

Not that ‘tolerated’ was the right word. Greg always enjoyed their conversations. Mycroft was immensely intelligent, of course, and considered in his opinions. His work had enhanced his skill at listening for meaning, and Greg was often astounded at how quickly he could get to the crux of a problem. He flattered himself that Mycroft found him a little amusing; surely he’d have stopped coming if Greg was boring.

It didn’t hurt that he was attractive as hell, flaring Greg’s interest in a fiercely physical way without even trying. Greg had worked hard to be discrete, but the Holmes brothers were nothing if not observant. Although, as he often reminded himself, Mycroft did keep showing up, so he was either better at hiding his reaction than he thought, or Mycroft didn’t mind it. As if that was a possibility.

Greg was still staring at his phone, wondering which would be the least pathetic option, when a large vehicle pulled up beside him. He glanced up, freezing as he registered the details. Black, with tinted windows and no number plates; it could not have looked more Government if it tried.

“Sir?” As Government-issue as the car, a young man stood in front of Greg, his expression neutral and polite. “Are you Detective Inspector Lestrade?”

“Yes?” Greg knew he didn’t sound very sure, but this was, even by his standards…weird.

“Mister Holmes has asked us to collect you and your possessions,” the young agent said. “With your permission, of course.”

“Um,” Greg wasn’t sure, but what option did he have? “Which Mister Holmes are we talking about?”

The man blinked at him, impassive.

“I’m guessing not Sherlock?”

“Unlikely, sir,” came the reply. Probably as close to absolute confirmation he was going to get, Greg thought.

“Okay,” Greg said. “D’you want help with this?”

“Not necessary,” he said, and another black suited person appeared. They made short work of Greg’s boxes, and in only a moment he was buckled in, the car moving through the traffic.

“Did Mister Holmes say where we’re going?” Greg asked. The person – agent? – beside him smiled.

“Yes sir,” they replied. “Our estimated trip time is fifteen minutes.”

“Right,” Greg replied. “Thanks.”

“Of course.”

So somewhere in London, then, he thought to himself. At this point, he didn’t even care if Mycroft was having him dropped at a cheap hotel; at least he’d have his boxes with him, and with any luck, at least one of these agents would help him lug it all inside.

It was more than he thought he’d have, standing outside Trisha’s flat.

As the city slid slowly by – it was rush hour, after all – Greg let go of himself and just watched. All those people, he thought, rushing home to friends, lovers, kids. Some of them must be single, he thought; he couldn’t be the only person in London without someone in his life. Without a single person to call when they found themselves homeless, their whole life contained in half a dozen battered cardboard boxes.

Christ, I am a pathetic excuse for a human, Greg thought to himself.

It was too big to process. The wave of emotion frightened Greg with its depth, drawing from deeper in his soul than he thought possible. Right now he didn’t fight it, but neither did it affect him. He’d cocooned himself for the moment, a bubble of blank slate in the sea of tumultuous emotion. Later, he told himself. Later you can indulge; right now, it’s about survival. Finding somewhere safe to sleep tonight was as far as he could think.

“Detective Inspector?” The agent beside him spoke, their tone clearly one of someone who’d already tried to get his attention.

“Yeah, sorry, long day,” Greg said automatically. “We here?” He looked outside, frowning before stepping out of the car.

“Mister Holmes’ private residence,” the agent announced. “This is the secure garage. We can leave your belongings over there if that’s alright.” They pointed to a corner prepared for storage; wide shelves were half full of black storage boxes.

“Yeah, fine, thanks,” Greg replied. The words were coming without him thinking; his bubble was pushing everything else away. He watched in silence as his boxes were unloaded, stacked in a disappointingly small pile inside this huge garage.

“The entrance is this way,” the same agent told him. The first agent – the one who’d spoken to him on the street – had returned to the car.

“Do you work for My-Mister Holmes?” Greg asked.

“Broadly speaking,” they replied. A quick glance, and they added, “We don’t usually pick people up off the side of the road, though.”

“It’s not exactly a normal day for me either,” Greg said, trying for a smile. It faltered, and he knew his words sounded false, as though the finish he’d tried to apply had tarnished. The effort was too much and he lapsed into silence as the lift rose in silence.

They exited into a tiny hall, Greg lagging behind. He’d imagined some kind of complicated security system, but a simple doorbell and video conference was sufficient for the door to unlock.

“I’ll leave you here,” the agent said.

“Thanks,” Greg replied. “Thanks for doing all the boxes too.”

“No problem,” they said, then hesitated. “I hope your day improves, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

Greg stared for a second. “Thanks,” he said finally. The kind words had hit him harder than he expected, and his bubble felt more fragile now.

“Greg?” Mycroft’s voice sounded behind him.

With a deep breath, Greg turned, hoping he could hold it together. He opened his mouth to speak, but the lump in his throat and pressure behind his eyes told him a single word would be disastrous.

“Come in,” Mycroft said quietly.

Five steps across the hall; seventeen more into the living room, sitting on the sofa when Mycroft’s hand gently guided him down. Blinking, Greg looked up at him, eyes following as Mycroft knelt before him. His brain was fuzzy, and he vaguely wondered what Mycroft was doing until he felt the tug of a shoelace.

_He’s untying my shoes. Fair enough._

Allowing Mycroft to help him was easy. A soft hand on his calf, steadying his leg as he lifted his foot, the relief as his shoe slid off. Soft carpet under his toes, while Mycroft turned his attention to the other foot. It was over in moments. Greg dragged his eyes open, but couldn’t look at Mycroft. Whatever he thought he might find there – sympathy, empathy, pity – would be the end of him. It would pierce his bubble, allowing the remorseless sea to pull him under.

With a quiet smile, Mycroft stood. Greg listened to him walk away, a flash of midnight blue as his socked feet disappeared from view. The flat was very quiet; the sound of someone moving around in the next room was calming, reminding him that whatever else, he was not alone in this moment.

“Here,” A mug was pressed into his hands. Something warm, minty; peppermint, he thought. It was good.

“Do you think you can eat something?”

Greg nodded. If decisions were to be made, he would gladly let Mycroft make them for him.

Another few moment’s absence, and Mycroft returned with a tray. Greg pulled his eyes over, taking a moment to register what he saw.

_Toast._

_Butter. Fancy curled butter._

_A bowl. Smells like tomatoes._

_Is that tinned spaghetti?_

Surprised, he raised his eyes to Mycroft.

“A common comfort food, I am lead to believe,” he murmured. “Please, eat only as much as you wish.”

Greg nodded. He ate mechanically, not really tasting but feeling his stomach grow comfortably full and warm.

When he was done, Mycroft offered him a blisterpack of tablets. “If you would like something to help you sleep,” he said quietly, “these are effective. I find two is sufficient.”

Greg nodded, taking the packet.

“Might I show you to the guest room?” Mycroft asked.

Another nod. He followed Mycroft through to a small room, impeccably made up, as was the rest of the flat.

“An ensuite through that door,” Mycroft murmured. “Everything you might need tonight is ready for you.”

Greg nodded again, still staring when he felt Mycroft shift as though to leave. Suddenly, he grabbed out, wrapping his fingers around Mycroft’s bicep. He looked at Mycroft for a long moment, finding the gentle empathy there easier to bear than he had thought it would be.

“Thank you,” he said. The two words were difficult, but he hoped Mycroft understood.

“Good night,” Mycroft said. “Please make yourself at home here. Sleep as late as you wish in the morning.”

Greg gave a half smile. He headed for the bathroom at the same time as Mycroft left, closing the door behind him.

He’d thought of everything, Greg realised. Towel, flannel, clean pyjamas, toothbrush, toothpaste. On autopilot, Greg made himself ready for bed, highly conscious of the blisterpack of tablets on his bedside table. Filling a glass with water, he left the light in the ensuite on. Hesitating, he took two, gulping them down with his water before sliding into the cool sheets.

Finally, the day was over.


	2. Chapter 2

Waking was a struggle and for a moment Greg wondered why he had to fight so hard to pull himself out of it. When his eyes finally opened, they landed first on the blisterpack and water.

Mycroft.

Groaning, Greg rolled his face into the pillow. The absolute last thing he wanted to do today was go to work. He had no idea what time it was, but all things considered he figured he could take a personal day.

_Won’t be in today. Hold the fort, will you? Greg_

Message sent to Sally, Greg turned off his phone and closed his eyes again. As soon as he stopped fighting it, sleep reared up and took him again within minutes.

_Thank God._

+++ 

Hours later, probably, Greg groaned again. It was easier to wake this time, though he knew he’d need more sleep in the next few days if he was going to get through this. A quick glance reminded Greg he was at Mycroft’s place. Christ, that needed a couple of minutes to get his head around. Carefully, Greg went back through the events of the previous night. Hardly his best hour. How pathetic, he told himself, that you needed to be rescued by this guy you’d barely call a friend. He wondered vaguely how Mycroft knew what had happened, then decided he had bigger problems. No place to live, most of his life packed up a few boxes that were hopefully still in Mycroft’s storage. Hardly a penny to his name, not really; now that he wasn’t supporting Trisha he could save some, but it would take time. And in the meantime, where was he going to live?

“Jesus,” he muttered to himself, wincing at his gummy, stale mouth. How long had he actually slept?

Checking his watch, he was startled to see it was past eleven. He’d slept for hours, then. At least some of it was the tablets, but he was aware enough of himself to know it was also his body trying to recoup some of the sleep he’d lost in the last few months. If nobody had woken him, Sally must have got his message, probably with a gentle prompt from someone not to call Greg. No prizes for guessing who would have arranged that, he thought.

Greg stretched carefully, as long and wide as he could manage, holding it before relaxing again. He waited as the lactic acid in his muscles dispersed before rolling to sit up. Everything seemed to take a little longer, a little more concentration this morning, so he didn’t push himself. A shower, clean teeth and clean clothes and he felt a lot better. Unfortunately, he also felt hungry, something he couldn’t fix from here. Much as he had needed to move slowly, part of it was about avoiding Mycroft, and he couldn’t do that forever. Not while he was living in the man’s flat.

He wasn’t sneaking, he told himself, he was being considerate as he trod quietly into the kitchen. It was definitely a relief to find it empty; the kettle was obvious, so a coffee was easy enough, and he found a banana in the fridge. That would do for the moment. Once he’d eaten something and finished his coffee, there was nothing he could justifiably do to put off looking for Mycroft, so he walked back to the guest room, then ventured further down the corridor. There are two closed doors and one open, so he ducks his head in, not sure what he’d find.

As it turned out, this was Mycroft’s office. A wide desk, solid stained wood, sat in the middle of the room. It was occupied, Mycroft’s head bowed to his task as Greg stood there. He had no illusions that he might had sneaked up on Mycroft; it was certain in his mind that Mycroft was waiting for him to begin the conversation.

Greg took a moment, wondering what to say. Mycroft was concentrating intently, and Greg’s eyes swept over his upright posture and three piece suit. God, anyone else would be working in an old t-shirt and tracksuit pants, he thought to himself. But not Mycroft.

“You had tinned spaghetti,” Greg said quietly.

Mycroft looked up, lowering his pen as his eyes swept over Greg. “I did,” he replied. “A favourite of Sherlock’s.”

Greg nodded, leaning against the doorframe, crossing his arms self-consciously. He felt like he was broadcasting his awkwardness, but there was little point in trying to hide it, not from Mycroft. He hardly had the energy anyway.

“I should say thanks for sending the car last night,” Greg said. “Didn’t think you kept an eye on me, actually.”

Mycroft tilted his head. “I don’t,” he said apologetically. “However your…flatmate has been under observation for a short period. When it became clear she was…leaving your personal items outside your flat, I asked a team to ensure you had somewhere to go.”

Greg barked a short, harsh laugh. “And I clearly didn’t,” he said. The bitterness was sharp in his tone and his mouth, and he could feel heat rising in his cheeks.

“You did,” Mycroft corrected carefully. “Here.”

Greg blinked at him. “Right.”

“So, do you have plans?” Mycroft asked. “It must have been traumatic, arriving home to find your relationship ended so abruptly.”

“More of a relief,” Greg said without thinking. “Not a happy situation, really.”

Mycroft nodded. “So, plans?”

“Oh yeah,” Greg bluffed. “I figured I’ll just get a room somewhere for a while, decide where I want to find a flat.” As though he had the money for any of that. Or the time. Or the energy. He blinked, looking at Mycroft with all the casual confidence he could fake.

Mycroft raised one eyebrow. “Finding a room in central London won’t be easy,” he said mildly.

“I’ll find something,” Greg said, ignoring memories of the grim little rooms at the Hotel McInnes.

Without changing his expression, Mycroft spoke again. “You are welcome to stay here as long as you like.”

Greg stared. “I don’t want to be any trouble,” he said blankly.

A slight smile, the first sign of emotion Greg had seen. “You mean apart from diverting a team to keep your flat under surveillance, collect you, have you cleared to come into my home?” The smile widened a little more. “Having a key cut will hardly be a chore,” he added gently. Seeing Greg’s hesitation, he added, “If you would prefer, I could help you secure accommodation-"

“No,” Greg cut him off. He couldn’t think of anything more humiliating than having someone help him get sorted. Especially Mycroft Holmes. He tried for a smile, to temper his refusal. “I…I need to do it myself.”

“Of course,” Mycroft replied immediately. “The offer stands, however.”

“Thanks,” Greg muttered. Since they’d already broached the subject, he added, “Might just do some extra overtime shifts, that kind of thing.” He took a deep breath, swallowing what little pride he had left. “Don’t want to be a burden for longer than I have to.”

Mycroft nodded. “I’ll have the arrangements made,” he said, making a note on his pad.

+++

Arriving at work the next day, Greg was relieved they headed out almost immediately to a scene. It meant the idle chat of a quiet morning was negated, and he didn’t have to concentrate on not brooding about things. He’d spent most of the previous day in the guest room, ostensibly resting but actually avoiding Mycroft. Even with his alarm set early, Mycroft was still up and gone by the time he woke; the flat seemed uncomfortably quiet with nobody else there. By the time he returned to his desk, his mind was so focussed on the case he’d all but forgotten about what was happening in his personal life.

Until he saw the memo.

Scanning it, Greg stopped, his coffee halfway to his mouth.

 _Mental and emotional health are of paramount importance to NSY._ There were a few paragraphs about how too little downtime or sleep could impact on mental and emotional health and work performance (that’d be the actual reason for this, Greg thought cynically), but the last paragraph was what stopped Greg cold.

_To ensure all members are working to capacity and to promote optimal mental and emotional health, full time staff are no longer automatically authorised for more than ten (10) hours per week of overtime. All overtime hours above and beyond ten (10) hours per calendar week must be approved by a DCI or higher and must relate to cases being actively pursued by that member. No extra shifts will be approved for members unless all casual staff are unavailable. These shifts will also require approval by a member of the rank DCI or higher._

“You’re fucking kidding,” Greg muttered to himself. Ten hours a week was a drop in the ocean when there was a big case on; Greg and his team had been known to work three times that without even thinking about it. From the look of this, that might be approved, but he’d bet his last cigarette there would be more paperwork. And casual staff were a good theory, but there was no replacement for having your own team assembled. Even if it was on a Sunday. Chasing people after the fact was just a waste of time when you could have just had the person sitting at the desk beside you.

All that aside, Greg could see his plans of working to avoid Mycroft and accrue extra funds going up in smoke.

This had Mycroft’s fingerprints all over it.

Furious, he set the memo aside, trying to set his ire aside along with it. He couldn’t work and fume at the same time, and right now he needed to get some things going on this investigation.

It was a good theory, but Greg couldn’t quite put aside his reaction to the memo. He was so sure Mycroft was behind it. The timing was too good, after he’d mentioned doing more overtime that morning. What was Mycroft playing at? Did he actually want Greg staying in his house for longer? As if it wasn’t inconvenient enough, having a pathetic kind-of-colleague staying in your spare room indefinitely.

_Jesus._

“Right.”

Greg blinked, scowling automatically at the intrusion. He knew he’d been snappy all afternoon, and eventually he’d just locked himself in his office, trying to get rid of the backlog of emails that always built up as soon as he did anything. Like his actual job.

“What, Sally?” he asked gruffly.

“You and I are going out,” she said. “Come on.”

Greg scowled at her, but she crossed her arms and scowled right back, raising one eyebrow in a challenge.

“Fine,” he said, grabbing his coat and wallet. “But make sure-”

“It’s sorted,” she interrupted. “I’ve got people on whatever it is you’re going to remind me of. McConnell’s going to keep an eye on the newbies.” She waved him through first, chivvying him along until they made it out of the building and down to the pub on the corner.

Greg opened his mouth to protest, but she plonked him down in a booth before waving to the barman. “Couple of pints, Tony?” She sat in front of him, and Greg had the peculiar impression he was about to be interrogated. “Alright, spill.”

“What?” he said.

“No,” she said, pointing one finger in his face. “No. You took yesterday off with zero notice, and this morning you’re fine at the scene, but as soon as we get back to the office you’re suddenly as grumpy and I’ve ever seen you.” She levelled him with an intense look, holding it while Tony placed their drinks on the table. “What the hell is going on?”

“Nothing,” Greg tried, taking a sip of her beer.

“Bullshit,” she said. “When I started this job, boss, it was made very clear to me that calling you on your bullshit was part of the job. So here I am, doing my bit.”

Greg scowled at her, but his face was sore from doing that all day, and he couldn’t hold it long. “Fuck,” he muttered.

Sally sat back. She knew she’d cracked him, now she just had to wait. He knew that smug satisfaction, he’d taught her everything she knew. Dammit.

“Trisha kicked me out,” Greg muttered. “Night before last. Needed to get myself sorted yesterday.”

Sally drank, thinking. “Well that’s shit, broadly speaking,” she said, “though I won’t be the first to say I told you so. No surprises there, boss.”

“Yeah, thanks,” Greg said. “How about this for a surprise, then. I was about to call a taxi when I got picked up by an unmarked black car and taken to an undisclosed location.”

He waited for her to connect the dots. It didn’t take long, of course.

“Sherlock’s brother?” she said, eyebrows rising in surprise. “Holy shit, boss.”

“Sherlock’s brother,” Greg said. “Jesus, do you even know his name?”

“No,” Sally shrugged. “Don’t think it’s ever really come up.”

“Well I don’t even know if I can tell you,” Greg said. He really should find out about that.

“So he put you up last night?” Sally said. She was grinning now, enjoying this, Greg thought.

“Yes,” Greg replied, not thinking too hard about how much more Mycroft had done other than ‘put him up’. “He, um, offered to let me stay for a while. ‘til I can get things sorted.”

“Seriously?” Sally asked.

“Well, it’s a hell of a lot nicer than anywhere else I could afford right now,” Greg said, colouring slightly at the admission.

“Yeah, of course, I mean, that’s really nice of him,” Sally said, but there was still some doubt behind her expression. She lifted her pint again and her unsaid words hung in the air between them.

“Go on, say whatever you’re thinking,” Greg sighed.

Sally put her glass down carefully before answering. “I mean, how well do you know this guy?” she asked. “Have you actually spent any time with him apart from being kidnapped occasionally?”

Greg trailed one finger down the condensation of his glass, wondering how much to share with Sally.


	3. Chapter 3

“Yes,” he said finally, leaving it there, waiting for her to ask…something else.

He could see her demenour shift at his evasive answer, and he suppressed a smile. They’d done this before – played this game of cat and mouse, and he wondered this time how much she’d be able to glean from his answers. It did depend on how much he wanted to show, but only to a point. Sally was a skilled DS, and it wouldn’t surprise him if she picked up more than he intended. Not that he was too worried – she was discreet, and now that he’d decided to play the game, it was partly about testing her.

“I’m guessing he didn’t fill in on your football team,” Sally said dryly.

Greg snorted a laugh. “Er, no,” he confirmed.

Sally cocked her head, a certain sign she was thinking, considering ideas and probing to see if they fit the evidence. “Late night drinks,” she said finally. “Probably a posh club of his, after those scenes he shows up to for no reason – or to take our cases off us.”

“Very good,” Greg murmured, drinking to hide his smile. A shot of pride spiralled through him. She really was very good.

“And he drops you home sometimes,” Sally continued, “so he’d have your address.” She raised her eyebrows. “Did he have you under surveillance? Is that how he knew…you might need a lift,” she finished delicately.

“Trisha was being monitored,” Greg corrected, “but otherwise, yes.”

“Nice,” Sally smirked. “I bet he has bloody good Scotch.”

“He does,” Greg agreed.

Sally narrowed her eyes, then leaned forward. “You ever slept with him?”

Greg had been about to take a drink, and was grateful he hadn’t or he would certainly have choked. “What?”

“Come on, I know you’ve dated men,” Sally pointed out, “and I also know your type.”

“Really,” Greg said. “Go on then.” He sat back and crossed his arms. This would be a stretch on her part – she did know he’d dated men, but she’d never met any of them.

“Taller than you,” she started with a confident smirk, “nicely dressed, long legs, and Greg if you’re not a sucker for power I’ll eat my badge.”

Greg stared at her. “How the fuck did you know that?”

Sally grinned, knowing she’d won this round. “Because all of that applies to Sherlock’s brother, and I’ve seen how you look at him when he shows up to a scene.”

Greg opened his mouth, not entirely sure if he was going to deny it or not, but he closed it and drank from his pint, shrugging at her instead.

“No,” he said, “to answer your earlier question.”

“But if he offered…” Sally said, grinning at her boss’ discomfort.

“Look, it’s not on the table,” Greg said. “He just offered me to stay in his spare room – which is bigger than my office, by the way.”

“But if it was,” Sally said, grinning, “just be safe, okay?”

“You are most welcome to very fuck off,” Greg told her.

Sally grinned. After a moment of quiet, she asked, “So if that’s what happened, and you’re now shacked up with this guy-”

“-we are not shacked up!”

“-okay, you’re rudely imposing on his hospitality, you freeloader, then what’s with the bad mood all afternoon?”

_Shit._

Greg had hoped she’d forgotten about that with all the talk about Mycroft. He rolled his eyes. “That memo about new overtime process,” he said, hoping she wouldn’t probe any deeper.

Of course, she did. “So?” she said. “Unless…”

“Don’t,” Greg said, but she was already following the idea.

“Jesus, did he do that?”

“I don’t know,” Greg replied. “I told him I might pick up some overtime so I could move out, stop imposing on him.”

Sally stared at him. “And that was his response?”

“I think so,” Greg said.

“Jesus, he really is powerful,” Sally said.

“Yeah,” Greg agreed.

“Why would he want you to stay?” Sally mused, though her eyes were watching Greg.

He rolled his eyes. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

“Greg, we’ve had this conversation,” Sally told him. “You do not see the same thing everyone else does, trust me.”

“Yeah, well I know me better than everyone else,” Greg grumbled.

“If this guy is half as observant as his brother, I’d say he knows you pretty well,” Sally said. “And if he’s offered you a place to stay, and he’s doing his best to keep you there,” she shrugged. “I bet he had to convince you not to move out yesterday, am I right?”

Greg shrugged. They both knew she was right.

“And,” Sally continued, “if he’s half as bad at personal relationships as Sherlock, I’d bet he’ll be the last person in the world to actually come out and say he’s interested.”

“He wears a ring,” Greg pointed out.

“It’s on the wrong hand, Greg, which you damn well know,” Sally shot back.

Dammit, he’d hoped she hadn’t noticed that. “You are annoyingly good at your job, did you know that?” Greg told her.

“Yep,” she replied. “Learned from the best.”

“I used to be,” Greg murmured. “Not sure I’m the best at anything anymore.” The beer must be affecting him more than he realised, if that kind of melancholy thought was coming out.

“Go and talk to him,” Sally said. “About the overtime thing, and if he’s evasive, use your own bloody good interview skills and find out why he’s done it.”

Greg stared at her. “You’re kidding.”

“Well what else are you going to talk about when you get home?” Sally asked. “Assuming he’s home and not roaming London for random crime scenes to crash.”

“Yes, thank you,” Greg told her. He drained the last of his pint and sighed. There really was nothing else for it – Sally wouldn’t let him go back to work now. It was still light out, so the chances of Mycroft being home were negligible, he supposed. He could cook, maybe? Hadn’t done that in a while.

“Why don’t you pick up some real food?” Sally suggested. “It’s still early, you could cook for once.”

“You are disturbingly good,” Greg informed her, dropping a tenner on the table. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Have a good one,” Sally said, and as he left she added cheekily, “Make good choices!”

He flipped her off, but a wide grin accompanied it.

It was only a couple of blocks to Tesco, and he was in and out in fifteen minutes.

It wasn’t until he was standing on the street that he realised he had no idea how to get to Mycroft’s flat. Or how to get in, for that matter. He was sure there were security codes.

Pulling out his phone, Greg dialled Mycroft before he could talk himself out of it.

“Good afternoon,” Mycroft greeted him.

“Hi,” Greg said, suddenly nervous. “Um, I know it’s early, but I’m leaving work and I have no idea how to get to your place. Or how to get in.” He laughed nervously. “Sorry. Do you think you could-”

“I will send a car,” Mycroft said immediately. “Are you actually at work?”

“Well, no,” Greg said, startled at his quick response. “I’m outside the Tesco down the road.”

“Fifteen minutes,” Mycroft said. “Are you able to wait somewhere comfortable?”

“Here’s fine,” Greg said. “There’s a coffee shop next door, and I’m sure I’ll notice a huge black car with Government plates pull up.”

“Very well,” Mycroft replied, and before Greg could thank him again, the line disconnected.

One very disappointing hot chocolate later – Greg wasn’t convinced there was actual chocolate in it – and the car pulled up, as conspicuous as Greg had known it would be. He grabbed his shopping bags and was pulling the door shut behind him when he realised there was someone else in the backseat, and it wasn’t a security person.

“Good afternoon,” Mycroft said. “You seem surprised to see me.”

“I am,” Greg replied. He was going to say something but stopped himself, looking out of his window instead. He’d been in a good mood – going back to a nice place, cook himself some dinner, unwind a bit, consider what he might say to Mycroft. Speaking to Sally had put him in a better mood, but now the emotion of earlier came back to him, and he was caught off guard at having to speak to Mycroft so soon.

Perhaps Mycroft was as conscious of the security staff as Greg, or perhaps he could read Greg’s body language, but he didn’t say anything else until they arrived at his residence. There was a keypad and fingerprint recognition; Greg raised an eyebrow at the lack of key.

“No key, then?” he asked.

“Not literally, no,” Mycroft replied levelly. “If you would place your thumb here, please.”

Greg did without comment, watching Mycroft enter the code. When they were in, the door locked behind them, Greg headed for the kitchen. He’d bought enough ingredients to make a couple of meals. If he was going to be leaving on time every day, he really should cook. Not to mention the cost of takeaway added up, and he wasn’t in a place to throw money around right now.

“Gregory,” Mycroft said. Greg hesitated, finishing finding a spot for the meat he’d bought before closing the fridge and turning to face Mycroft. He’d shed his coat but otherwise his clothes were still impeccable and Greg felt his stomach twist at the sight. Sally was right, Mycroft was exactly his type, and apart from the slightly uncertain look on his face, he looked incredible right now.

“Yeah?” Greg said.

“You’re planning on cooking this evening?” Mycroft asked.

“Well, yeah, if that’s okay,” Greg replied, uncertainty overriding his annoyance for a moment.

“Of course,” Mycroft said immediately. He hesitated, and asked, “I realise you were not anticipating my presence. Should I arrange for my own meal?”

Greg blinked. “Nah, there’ll be heaps,” he said finally. He could hardly cook and tell Mycroft he couldn’t have any. “Not going to start yet, though.”

Mycroft nodded, and Greg thought he might say something else, but he turned instead, stepping out of sight.

Greg waited, but when Mycroft didn’t return, he shrugged, putting the rest of the shopping away. There was no point in starting the cooking yet, so he headed to the guest room. Might as well get changed if he was going to be sitting around all night.

It looked like Trisha had just thrown everything he had into random boxes, so Greg spent some time finding everything and setting it into some kind of order. He pulled out an old pair of jeans, a long sleeved t shirt and a soft jumper as he worked, changing out of his suit and hanging it in the wardrobe. The navy blue jumper was a good colour, he knew; his sister had told him once, and he’d found himself veering towards the colour more often. It was one less decision to make on the rare occasions he dressed to go out socially.

When he finally emerged, Greg wished he’d bought some beer. The pint at the pub was a distant memory, and he thought he might appreciate the false courage with conversation he was probably going to have with Mycroft this evening. His brain had been working out a plan as he sorted his belongings, but he wasn’t completely sure he’d be able to follow it through. It depended on what Mycroft said, he thought as he piled ingredients on the bench.

He was still mulling on it when Mycroft appeared in the doorway. He was standing in exactly the same place as earlier, and if he hadn’t changed his clothes, Greg might have thought he’d imagine Mycroft’s absence earlier. As it was, Greg’s train of thought was temporarily derailed by the sight of Mycroft in soft looking caramel coloured trousers, a white shirt open at the throat, and a navy V necked jumper that was probably cashmere and definitely cost more than the Greg’s. Greg swallowed, pulling his eyes up again, grateful Mycroft seemed to be distracted by the food.

“What are you making?” Mycroft asked.

“Nothing fancy,” Greg replied, forcing his voice to remain neutral through the desire and irritation. “Mushroom risotto, some grilled chicken.” Much better than anything he’d have ordered in. If he was going to cook, his waistline would thank him for making it healthier.

“Can I offer you a glass of wine while you cook?” Mycroft asked.

Greg, who’d been searching the cupboards for a deep frying pan, paused. He couldn’t do this, the casual domesticity while he was still seething on the inside.

“Actually,” he said, turning back and closing the cupboard. He gripped the edge of the counter. “A new memo arrived on my desk today.” He studied Mycroft’s face at the statement, wondering if guilt was even something Mycroft felt, let alone showed on his face. Nothing in his expression showed anything except a polite interest in his story. Greg wasn’t convinced that meant Mycroft was innocent. From what he knew, Mycroft was exceptionally well trained and experienced in negotiations, so a blank face was no evidence of anything.

“They’re overhauling the overtime rules,” Greg said. As Mycroft continued to show no reaction, Greg felt his frustration grow. “Not only is it going to make it super difficult when we have a big case on, but I won’t be taking on extra shifts like I was telling you about yesterday.”

“You sound disappointed,” Mycroft said. His voice was mild, and for some reason it irritated Greg more than if he’d reacted in some way.

“Frustrated,” Greg corrected him, “when it comes to the big cases, but that’ll figure itself out. A few cases that don’t go fast enough and they’ll probably retract it.” He took a deep breath. “It’s the extra shifts.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “Problem?” he asked.

Greg recoiled as though he’d been hit. “Is it…yes, it’s a problem,” he said. “It’s a problem for me, who’s trying to get some extra cash together right now. But the bigger problem I have is with you making it happen.” He raised one eyebrow, and the first flicker of guilt flared in Mycroft’s eyes.

_Gotcha._

“So, did you want to explain?” Greg asked. “Or should I pack my stuff now?”

“I beg your pardon?” Mycroft said.

“Do you really think I want to stay here if you’re going to be interfering with my life like this?” Greg said, hearing how much he was overreacting but not able to stop himself.

Mycroft hesitated. “I believed I was helping,” he said carefully.

“Helping?” Greg retorted, hearing his voice rise.

“I know what a workaholic personality looks like,” Mycroft said. “Given the option, you would work yourself into the ground, even if it was unnecessary.”

Greg stared. “So?” he said. “How is that any of your concern? Other than it would mean I can move out a few weeks earlier?”

“I would prefer you stay longer and leave healthy,” Mycroft retorted. “Should you be required to work an intense case while still recovering from an excess of overtime-”

“’An excess of overtime’?” Greg repeated incredulously. “Who the hell are you to decide how much overtime is excessive?”

“I made no such decision,” Mycroft retorted. His cheeks turned a noticeable pink as he admitted, “I simply suggested that having a policy would bring New Scotland Yard into line with other emergency services.”

“Right. And when did you make this suggestion?” Greg demanded. “Before or after I mentioned taking extra shifts?”

“After,” Mycroft admitted.

“And you suggested they implement it soon,” Greg said, as though it was a foregone conclusion.

“I did,” Mycroft said. “Greg, I had no intention of-”

“Well, you did,” Greg said, cutting him off. “Jesus, Mycroft, is this the price of me staying here? You suddenly get the right to dictate my life?”

“No!” Mycroft protested. “Your accommodation here is not conditional, Greg. As I said, I was only thinking of your wellbeing.”

“Right,” Greg said, as sceptically as he could manage. He stalked forward, part of his brain warning him it might be a bad idea to move so close. He ignored the delicate scent of aftershave, the details that became clear as the distance between them disappeared. Deliberately antagonistic, he poked Mycroft in the chest. “And what right do you have to make decisions about my health without my permission?”

Mycroft held his eyes, and Greg was suddenly aware of exactly how close they were standing. “None,” he said, and the word was loaded with a sadness Greg had not expected. “I have no right to made decisions for you. My deepest apologies for my transgression.”

He made to step back, but Greg, still trying to figure out what was going on, reached out, fingers curling around a bicep. “Wait,” Greg said. The anger was draining away as confusion took over. He was still annoyed at the liberty Mycroft had taken, but now the reason was becoming more important as he studied Mycroft’s response to this conversation.

Mycroft stopped, but his eyes still wouldn’t meet Greg’s. He stood quietly, waiting for Greg to do something, presumably.

“Look at me,” Greg said, fingers still holding Mycroft’s arm. “Please.”

Slowly, Mycroft raised his eyes, and Greg met them, probing for some clue. His heart started beating faster as he saw…what did he see?

“Why?” Greg asked quietly. His voice was soft, and he was relieved that the antagonism was gone.

Mycroft held his eyes for several more breaths, and Greg wondered if he would need to ask again, but then Mycroft drew a breath. “Your health is important to me,” he said very quietly. “I must admit I lied to you yesterday. Your ex-partner was never under surveillance. I have taken certain…liberties, a highly unprofessional action for which I am deeply sorry.”

His face was very red, but his eyes were steady on Greg’s.

“You’ve been watching me?” Greg asked. It sounded creepier when he said it, but given what he knew about Mycroft – and his brother, really – he could see how the man might consider it protective rather than invasive.

“I have a number of individuals monitored,” Mycroft said carefully. “For their own protection. I do not personally review every moment of their day.”

It was the most political answer Greg had ever heard, and of course, it didn’t answer his question at all.

“Why, though?” Greg asked. He had an idea – a possibility had raised itself, but there was too much of his own longing wrapped around it to really know if it was a conclusion reached from fact or desire.

“I think you know,” Mycroft said quietly. “You are not an unobservant man, Greg.”

Sally’s words came back to him. _I’d bet he’ll be the last person in the world to actually come out and say he’s interested._ This time, they filled Greg with frustration. They were grown men, and he was standing in Mycroft’s kitchen asking him to be honest about his motives. If he couldn’t get a straight answer now, what would that say about their future, assuming they had one?

“Yeah,” Greg said. “But I’m also not an idiot.”

Glancing at the food on the bench, he felt a burst of recklessness. “I’m going out for a walk.”

“A walk?” Mycroft said, startled at the change in direction.

“I can’t keep asking and trying to figure this out,” Greg said. “I just want a straight answer, Mycroft. Whatever the deal is, I don’t even care right now. I just want you to tell me, so we can figure out what comes next.” He stepped past Mycroft, ignoring the wave of awareness as he brushed past Mycroft’s shoulder. “I’ll be back in an hour. I’d appreciate not being followed.”

The door closed behind him and he didn’t know if he was glad or not that Mycroft didn’t follow him out. Probably for the best, given the last thing he’d said.

Greg was restless, walking without paying much attention to where he was going. When he did look up, he swore under his breath. He’d ended up near work. Nice, he told himself. Autopilot leads you right back here. Turning, he frowned, trying to figure out the best way back to Mycroft’s place.

He still didn’t know Mycroft’s address.

Fuck.

And he’d walked out without his phone.

Double fuck.

Well, at least he was close to work. He could head up to his office, call Sherlock, get him to phone his brother. The ensuing conversation wouldn’t be fun, but he didn’t have a lot of choices and now that he’d cooled off a bit, he just wanted to have the rest of this conversation with Mycroft. It was exhausting, living on the emotional edge like this, and the last thing he needed was another thing hanging over his head.

Deciding to cut through the alleyway behind his building, Greg was preoccupied enough not to notice the pair of shadows behind him, and when the first blow fell, he thought, _I should have stayed with Mycroft._


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shoutout to Scaredycattales for recognising the Michael Sheen quote in the last chapter.
> 
> This chapter features a mash-up of Bridget Jones/Pride and Prejudice (2005) by accident - I didn't recognise it until I was editing! A thousand points if you can spot it.

When it stopped, Greg breathed for a moment. Wincing, he raised one hand, relieved when it landed on something hard. Possibly, a wall, he thought dazedly. Not at the same angle as whatever he was resting on, which was also hard, and cold, and uneven.

Cobblestones, maybe.

He shifted slowly, groaning as various places hurt. His head was pounding, and exploring fingers found quite an egg on the back of his skull. The world tilted, pulsing as he lifted his head; he was definitely alone, though his sight was a little blurry. There was something in his eye, something warm and sticky; it was black in the half light of the alleyway, but he suspected it might be blood. He wiped it away, but a fresh trickle ran down his temple and he gave up.

_Need some help._

When he could sit up without feeling like he was going to be sick, Greg propped himself against the wall and closed his eyes for a second, breathing deeply. He felt his ribs protest; might be one cracked, he thought. Not broken, though. He remembered the agony of that pain and this wasn’t as sharp. So a head wound or two, cracked rib, bruising around his torso and his knee was pretty sore. Not the worst he’d had, but enough to make getting home a bit tricky from here. His head was bleeding steadily; he knew that didn’t mean it was bad, necessarily, but he did need to get it seen to properly.

_Can’t sit here all night._

Still moving slowly, Greg used the wall to get himself up, leaning on it for support while he tested out his knee. Painful, but nothing felt broken; he could put weight on it, at least. Carefully, he hobbled towards the alleyway with the vague idea he should head for work. Someone would be there. Someone could call Mycroft for him. Then he could have a sleep. Sleep sounded good.

Greg had never been so happy for the automatic doors at work. It was late enough they had to buzz him in, and from the shocked expression on the new night security guard’s face, he was a sight as he limped through the foyer.

“Don’t,” he said, as the guard reached for the phone. “Don’t need an ambulance. Just need to get to my desk.”

“Sir,” the guard said, his tone apologetic, “I’m sorry, I don’t recognise you. Do you have any ID on you?”

Greg blinked, the question taking a moment to sink in. He’d walked out of Mycroft’s with no intention of needing anything, just wanting to clear his head. He didn’t have his phone and certainly didn’t have his wallet. Sighing, he let his gaze float past, landing on one of the press clippings adorning the hall behind the guard.

_That’s me._

_Huh._

“Will that do?” Greg pointed to the front page of the Guardian, his own face smiling beside the Police Commissioner, shaking hands as they celebrate the successful incarceration of the Quentin sisters. “That’s me. Look at the…” the word escaped him, so he said, “words. Underneath. That’s me. Greg Lestrade.”

The guard narrowed his eyes, then turned to the newspaper, then back to Greg. Finally, he said, with some reserve, “Okay. Can I get you some help, then?”

“I need to get into my office,” Greg said. “I need to get to a phone number there. Can you let me in?”

The guard looked hesitant. “Look, I’ve been mugged,” Greg said, stretching the truth a little, “and I want to call my friend. He’s a doctor. You can escort me up if you don’t want to give me your keys.”

This seemed to satisfy the guard, who came with Greg, opening his office door. The stairs had pushed Greg’s knee to its limit, and he grunted as he sat down, the jolt hurting in a dozen places. Tiredly, he picked up his landline, pulling up John’s phone number.

“John? It’s Greg. I’ve been mugged…I’m alright. Can you come to the Yard? And tell Sherlock to call his brother and tell him I’m here. I’ll explain later. Thanks.”

He dropped the receiver, a splash of blood landing on his blotter startling him. He stared at it, the throbbing in his head now making it hard to focus. Greg grabbed a wad of tissues and pressed it to where he thought the wound was. It hurt like a son-of-a-bitch, and through gritted teeth he said, “Doctor John Watson. Might have his military ID, Captain John Watson. He’ll be here in ten minutes or so. Send him up?”

The guard, obviously satisfied that Greg wasn’t a risk, hesitated before leaving. “Can I get you anything, sir?”

“If John’s not here in fifteen minutes, just come and check I’ve not passed out, okay?” Greg said, and he was only half joking. He wasn’t sure if it was fatigue or blood loss or pain, but he was definitely looking at sleep as a favourable option. A small part of his brain suggested he lay down on his desk, and as soon as he’d shot the guard as much of a smile as he could muster, Greg did just that. It was a brilliant idea, and he closed his eyes immediately.

_Brilliant._

“Greg?” someone was calling his name, which was incredibly annoying. Greg groaned, wishing they’d go away. He was sleeping, for Christ’s sake.

“Greg, can you hear me?”

He wanted to reply, but it was too hard. Even the groan from earlier felt like a hell of a lot of effort. He thought he managed some kind of sound, but he couldn’t be sure.

“Greg, it’s John. Can you squeeze my hand?”

Now that, he could do. Probably. John’s hand was warm in his. Greg concentrated, and he wondered if the effort he’d put into squeezing actually did anything.

“Good. Greg, I’ve called an ambulance, I think you have a concussion. Sherlock’s called Mycroft, he’s going to meet us at the hospital.”

Greg wanted to say something but he couldn’t. Maybe another squeeze…

“Good, Greg. Don’t worry, we’ve got you.”

Whether he wanted to or not, Greg slipped away from the voice, floating in a dark sky filled with clouds.

+++

Coming down out of the sky was less pleasant than ascending. Greg’s eyes were still closed, but he could feel a dull pounding in his head and when he tried to move, even just a tiny bit, his skull exploded with pain.

He whimpered, pressing his eyes tightly shut again.

“Greg?”

A voice again, but not the same as last time. Quieter, and more familiar. It was someone he knew, but the pain from moving was too much, he daren’t risk it again. Carefully, he located his hand – resting on something soft which may or may not be his leg – and shifted it towards the voice, very slowly and without actually lifting it up.

Immediately his hand was enveloped in smooth, warm fingers, surrounding his hand and squeezing gently. It was nice, and he smiled a little. It was what he imagined Mycroft’s hands would feel like.

“Myc…” Greg murmured, though he regretted it immediately, the vibrations clattering through his skull.

“I’m here,” came a reply, and Greg realised it was actually Mycroft holding his hand. What was he doing here? Where was ‘here’, anyway? Some kind of hospital, probably, with the state of his head. Greg didn’t remember…what was the last thing he remembered?

“Are you in pain?” Mycroft’s voice came again. “Squeeze my hand if you are.”

Greg squeezed.

“Okay,” Mycroft replied. “Just a moment…”

A flood of blankness soared through his veins, and Greg sighed, the pain washed away, and he was carried away with it.

+++

Waking the third time was far easier. The pain was gone, but everything was still not quite right. Greg still felt fragile, and he moved his head very carefully at first, not opening his eyes, using his other senses to see what he could work out about where he was.

Someone was holding his hand. Soft skin, long fingers, relaxed even when he twitched. Mycroft, and he was probably asleep.

The bed was propped up at one end; the pillows too fat and soft to be absolutely comfortable, and the blanket had a distinctive hospital smell and feel. Not surprising, all things considered.

Greg could hear murmurs from somewhere not too close. That didn’t mean anything in a hospital, it could be any time of day or night, but he suspected, from the complete quiet in this room, that it was a private room.

“Greg?” The voice came at the same time Greg realised the fingers entwined with his were now curled into his palm. Mycroft must be awake, then.

“Myc,” he croaked, wincing at his dry throat.

“Here,” and a straw was tapping at his lower lip. Greg drank the cool water, grateful for it.

“Thank you,” he replied. His eyes were still closed, and having one less thing to process was working for him, so he asked, “What happened?”

“What is the last thing you remember?” Mycroft asked.

“We argued,” Greg said. “I left. I walked. I…” he frowned. “Something hit me. Then…not nothing, but I don’t remember properly. Was I at work? And John was there...”

“Yes,” Mycroft said. “You told the security guard you were mugged, then you called John and when he arrived, you’d passed out on your desk. He was worried you were concussed, and there was a nasty head wound.”

“There was blood in my eyes,” Greg said. He had no idea why he remembered that. Carefully, he opened his eyes a little, bracing against the potential pain. Mycroft was there, looking exhausted. He was still in the jumper Greg remembered from that afternoon, his sleeves rolled up unevenly. How odd, Greg’s brain noted. No pain, though.

“Yes,” Mycroft said again, and his hands tightened over Greg’s. He looked down, and swallowed hard. “I need to apologise,” he said quietly. “You were quite correct. I owe you honesty, if nothing else, and had I been open with you earlier, this many not have-”

“No,” Greg interrupted him. “This is not your fault.” He winced, shifting a little. “I shouldn’t have pushed you.”

Mycroft looked at him steadily. “While I did – do – have your wellbeing in mind, another motive did drive my decision to interfere in your affairs at work. It was unprofessional and I apologise unreservedly.”

Greg blinked at him, processing this completely different Mycroft – apologising. As he watched, the uncomfortable professional façade fell apart, and he pressed his lips to Greg’s hand, still cradled in his own.

“I’m sorry,” Mycroft whispered, his breath running hot across Greg’s knuckles. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…”

“Hey,” Greg said, leaning forward carefully, his free hand pressing to Mycroft’s head. “It’s okay.”

Mycroft lifted his head, eyes meeting Greg’s, and the depth of emotion visible took Greg’s breath away. How had ever imagined Mycroft would be devoid of emotion? He was better at hiding it than Greg could have imagined, if this was what lay below that cool façade.

“It’s okay,” Greg said, his heart pounding as Mycroft came closer. Greg let his hand slide around the shape of Mycroft’s face, his thumb brushing over a freckled cheekbone. “It’s okay.”

“It is?” Mycroft asked.

“Yes,” Greg replied. He took a moderately deep breath, still wary of his ribs, and said, “I was pushing you because I wanted to know if you were trying to get me to stay because you’re interested in me. Romantically.” He could feel his face heat as Mycroft’s eyes widened. “It’s something I’ve thought about before, and I don’t want to put any kind of pressure on you.” He huffed a laugh. “I’m hardly a catch, especially now. Anyway, I just wanted to know where we stood. Because I didn’t really understand why you’d…spoken to the Yard.”

Mycroft was silent for a while, looking down at their hands still joined, resting on Greg’s leg. “When I realised you didn’t have anywhere to go,” he said carefully, “I wasn’t sure it was a good idea to offer my home. I almost asked my people to take you to a hotel instead.” Greg nodded. “But…I couldn’t…” he swallowed, “pass up the opportunity to help you. Personally. And when you came in, I could see how difficult your experience had been. I couldn’t let you just…” his voice trailed off.

“Not my finest hour,” Greg murmured. “You were very kind.”

Mycroft flushed. “Not a word often used to describe me,” he said. “When you mentioned working overtime to move out, I was alarmed for your welfare.” His eyes rose, meeting Greg’s earnestly. “I have seen how hard you work yourself, Greg, and I didn’t want to see you work yourself into the ground simply to be able to move out a little sooner. I must also admit, I was motivated by more personal desires.”

“Desires?” Greg prompted when Mycroft hesitated.

“Having you stay in my flat offered the possibility that you might…grow to see me differently,” Mycroft admitted, now flushing beetroot.

Greg smiled, his eyebrows rising. “Well,” he said, “as it turns out, I already saw you,” he said.

“Astonishing,” Mycroft replied.

Greg snorted. “You’re kidding, right?” When Mycroft looked at him blankly, he continued, “Come on. You’re gorgeous, well dressed, clearly well off, powerful…what’s not to be interested in?”

For the first time since Greg had known him, Mycroft seemed to be at a loss for words.

“On the other hand,” Greg said, “I’m prematurely grey, out of shape, recently kicked out with barely a half dozen boxes to my name.” He tried for humorous self-deprecation, but wasn’t sure if he’d pulled it off.

Mycroft was still looking a little shell shocked, and Greg didn’t know if it was his first statement or the second that had had that effect. He sat quietly. Mycroft sometimes needed time to process things, and Greg’s head was still a little woozy.

“I’m not sure you and I see eye to eye on that matter,” Mycroft said finally.

“What?” Greg said. “Which one?”

“Well,” Mycroft considered, “either of your statements. I am, however, willing to accept that you see me differently than I see myself, if you will accept the inverse.”

Greg blinked at Mycroft. So many complicated words. “What?” he said.

“While I don’t consider myself attractive,” Mycroft said again, “I will accept that you do, but only if you accept that whatever faults you see in yourself,” he took a deep breath, “to me you are perfect.”

For a moment, Greg wondered if his brain had been damaged more than they’d thought. “You think I’m…what?” he asked again.

“To me you are perfect,” Mycroft said, his voice trembling. “Just as you are.”

Greg blinked at him again. It was definitely possible his brain was damaged. Was he seriously sitting here listening to Mycroft say he was perfect?

“Please say something,” Mycroft whispered. “I know you said you had considered a romantic interest in me, and perhaps my declaration is excessive, but-”

“Mycroft,” Greg interrupted, “I’m not sure how far I can sit up, so you’ll need to come up here.”

“Why?” Mycroft asked.

“Can’t kiss you when you’re down there,” Greg replied.

There was a pause, but when Mycroft realised Greg was serious, he eased up until he was hovering close. Greg curled his hand into Mycroft’s collar, pulling him closer. “I’m injured, remember?” he murmured with a smile. The smile on his lips melted into Mycroft’s as they kissed, mouths stroking gently. It was quietly comforting, and when Mycroft hummed with contentment, warmth glowed through Greg’s chest. For the first time in a long time, he felt like someone might genuinely want his company. The feeling seeped into his bones, and when the kiss broke, Mycroft stayed close. It was glorious.

“So, any idea when I can get out of here?” Greg asked lazily.

“You have a concussion,” Mycroft told him, fingers stroking Greg’s jaw. “Two cracked ribs, ten stiches in your scalp, and assorted bruising.”

“A reasonable collection,” Greg said. He winced, shifting his weight a little. “Any idea of who it was?”

“They’ve been dealt with,” Mycroft replied.

“What, already?” Greg said. “Hang on, what time is it?”

“You slept for fourteen hours,” Mycroft told him. “It’s Thursday morning.”

“Right,” Greg replied, adjusting his thinking. “So, already?”

“Amateurs,” Mycroft said dismissively. “Scotland Yard has excellent CCTV around its buildings. It was a simple matter to trace a number plate, and the men responsible were conveniently sitting on the sofa waiting to be apprehended.”

“Seriously?” Greg asked before he could think.

“Well, it is possible that was not their intention,” Mycroft allowed, his mouth twitching, “however that is how it happened.”

“Motive?” Greg asked. It was odd asking someone else if they knew why he’d been beaten up in an alleyway.

“They’re Trisha’s brothers,” Mycroft replied. “When they berated her for kicking you out, she told them you’d been cheating.” He shifted uncomfortably. “I believe many of the financial demands she placed on you were on their behalf. They were upset at the loss income.”

“Right,” Greg said, taking it in. “Jesus. I didn’t even know she had brothers.”

“I’m sorry,” Mycroft said. His eyes were sincere, watching Greg’s reaction. “They won’t bother you again.” He paused. “I doubt she will, either.”

“No, I’m better off without her,” Greg said sombrely. They sat quietly for a minute, Mycroft’s hand warm on his chest. Greg smiled at him before saying, “So, my original question still stands. Any idea when I can get out of here?”

“The doctor is due soon,” Mycroft said, checking his watch. “I’ll leave the medicine to the professionals.”

“Right,” Greg said, a new thought occurring to him. “Look, I know we left things in a weird place. But is it still okay if I-”

Mycroft’s mouth on his stopped the rest of Greg’s awkwardly phrased question. When Greg stopped trying to talk through it, Mycroft eased back, though the kiss still lingered. “You are welcome to stay as long as you like, Gregory.”

“Gregory?” Greg repeated. Nobody called him that, not even his mum.

“If you have no objection,” Mycroft said.

“Sure,” Greg replied. He laced his fingers through Mycroft’s, revelling in their closeness. “I’ll get a few days off, I think. Any chance you could work from home for a while?” He made a deliberately pathetic face. “I might need someone to fluff my pillows, fetch my tea. That kind of thing.”

“I could probably be persuaded,” Mycroft said.

“Persuaded?” Greg said with a slow smile. “I don’t think that’ll be too much of an effort.”

Mycroft’s eyebrow rose, and Greg had the distinct impression that while Mycroft didn’t think he was lying, he also wasn’t entirely convinced. Then his expression shifted.

Greg felt his heart turn over at the look Mycroft gave him. “Cracked ribs, remember?” Greg said. “Not sure I’ll be doing so much persuading quite yet.”

“Fair enough,” Mycroft replied, pressing a smiling kiss to Greg’s mouth. “I hope you’ll be a good patient.”

“I have it on good authority I’m perfect,” Greg replied. When Mycroft edged closer for another kiss, Greg’s heart expanded. Mycroft made him feel seen. More than that, he somehow managed to make Greg feel like he was worth being seen. Maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t as pathetic as he’d feared.

Maybe Mycroft could show him.

Maybe they could show each other.


	5. Chapter 5

“But you’re injured, Gregory!”

Greg groaned with frustration. “I _was_ injured, Mycroft. Past tense.”

“Five days out of hospital does not put your injuries in the past. Your bruises are still clearly visible and it will be weeks before your ribs-”

“My ribs are-OW!”

“Precisely.”

“That smug look isn’t attractive at all, you know.”

Mycroft’s expression was somewhere between exasperated and fond as he regarded Greg across the sofa. Greg had insisted on walking up the stairs the day he was released – his knee felt pretty much back to normal after four days in hospital – but he’d stumbled on the last stair when his knee buckled, sending pain shooting through his ribs and head. Ever since, Mycroft had insisted on either somebody accompanying him up the stairs or on him taking the lift, neither of which seemed necessary to Greg. Some version of their conversation had happened every day since, and Greg couldn’t wait until he could do it on his own.

He knew he was hardly a model patient.

Normally – before Mycroft – he would have discharged himself, dragged himself around Tesco for some necessities and struggled home to lie on the sofa for a week, popping pain killers and making ready meals in between TV reruns and football matches. He would have returned to work before he really should have and regretted it, taking twice as long to heal properly, but knowing another week on the sofa would do his head well and truly in.

Last time he’d done that – wrenched his knee stepping off the pavement, of all things – he would have loved to have someone taking care of him. In his mind, it would have been relaxing, having food and drink brought to him, someone to talk to, to help him up and make sure he didn’t forget his painkillers.

Instead, he and Mycroft were perilously close to mutual homicide.

As far as Mycroft could see, Greg was being entirely unreasonable. He refused to lie supine on the sofa, eating only what was brought to him and listening to soothing music. He would not tolerate any form of alternative therapy (the acupressurist was turned away immediately), and there was no way he was going to bed at 9pm.

From Greg’s perspective, Mycroft was an overbearing tyrant. Why was soothing music better for him than an entire season of The Vicar of Dibley? Would a single pillow behind his head really prevent his ribs from healing correctly? And surely some guy pressing on his cracked ribs was against Western medical advice.

Plus, he was not ten years old. Nine o’clock was for late dinners, not bedtime.

If they weren’t so clearly besotted with each other, there would definitely have been stronger words.

As it was, the moment they looked at each other, two stubborn pairs of eyes meeting, someone would crack. The anger and refusal to listen would soften, a gaze flicking down to a mouth, lips twitching up in response, and then…someone’s hands were on someone else’s face, soft moans were filling the air, and Greg always ended up quite breathless. Mycroft was the gentlest soul he’d ever met, incredibly aware of his injuries and ready to stop the second Greg exhibited the smallest amount of discomfort. When they came back to each other, neither could remember what had been so frustrating they’d been arguing in the first place.

It was the best conflict resolution Greg had ever been a part of.

He’d move out of the spare bed after a single night of sleeping alone. Mycroft had been worried he would move in the night, knocking Greg’s ribs, but after hours of restless tossing and turning, Greg pointed out that he couldn’t be less comfortable that he already was.

“I missed you,” he said, feeling his face flush at the bald statement. He was learning that Mycroft needed stuff said without any of the usual frippery that so often accompanied discussions between couples. It worked better if he just said whatever it was first and softened it a little later if needed. Assumptions and insinuations were not Mycroft’s forte when it came to relationships – he was too used to finding a worst case scenario, so Greg needed to be clear. From then on, Greg had slept wonderfully, his hand and Mycroft’s entwined under a pillow separating their torsos, his concession to Mycroft’s concern that he’d be injured in the night.

On this morning, Greg wanted nothing more than to lie down on the sofa and watch the football. Mycroft had other ideas; he pointed out that Greg should be doing deep breathing exercises, and presented him with a device to measure his progress. Snorting derisively probably wasn’t the best reaction, but this was a step too far.

“I’m not a little old lady,” Greg protested. He was standing on one side of the sofa, Mycroft on the other, the ridiculous device clutched in his hand.

“A failure to breathe sufficiently deeply can carry an increased risk of pneumonia…” Mycroft started.

A quick retort came to Greg, but he bit it back in favour of a deep breath. The irony of this argument about him breathing deeply making him cross enough to breathe deeply was not lost on him.

“Mycroft,” he said, keeping his voice level. “I appreciate your concern. I do. But I’ve done this before. John walked me through it. He’s coming here to check me out twice a week.” He pointed at the thing Mycroft was holding. “I’m not breathing into that thing as well.”

When Mycroft drew a breath to take up the argument again, Greg stepped around the sofa. “How about this,” he said. “When John comes over tomorrow, I’ll ask him if I need to use it. If he says yes, I’ll use it without complaint. If he says no, it disappears.”

Mycroft had closed his mouth as soon as Greg started speaking, and now he tilted his head, considering the offer. “Very well,” he said finally. “But no persuasive arguments. John’s answer is final.”

“Agreed,” Greg said, grinning at him. The antagonism in the air slowly dissipated, Mycroft’s expression softening as Greg looked at him affectionately. “Okay?”

“Yes,” Mycroft murmured. He sighed as Greg moved closer, resting carefully against Mycroft, arms around his waist. “I am finding it difficult to see you discomforted,” he admitted.

It sent a shot of warmth through Greg. He knew how difficult such an admission was for Mycroft, and it was patently unnecessary. His concern was glaringly obvious, at least to Greg.

“So am I,” Greg said. “And I really do appreciate how much you’re thinking about me.”

“Constantly,” Mycroft said, dropping a kiss on Greg’s head. They stood there for a few minutes, enjoying the quiet. “Do you need anything?”

“Actually you know what I could eat?” Greg said, grinning. He turned so he could look at Mycroft. “Tinned spaghetti and toast. Do you remember what you made me that first night?”

“I do,” Mycroft replied.

“Comfort food,” Greg murmured. “And then a nap wouldn’t go astray.” He yawned, glad he’d started the day in loose fitting clothes so he wouldn’t have to get changed.

“Perhaps we could rest together,” Mycroft suggested. “That call to China last night was inconveniently timed.”

Greg smiled at him. “You used to cope with almost no sleep, if I remember.”

“I did,” Mycroft replied. “Now that I’ve been following more standard hours, my body seems to demand it, somehow.”

Greg bit back a reply about making demands on Mycroft’s body. “Fine with me,” he said instead. “I’d rather have some company.”

“Lunch first,” Mycroft said. “You rest here and I’ll bring it into you.”

“I’ll do the deep breathing while I watch the football,” Greg told him with a kiss.

“Thank you,” Mycroft murmured, smiling into Greg’s touch.

The exercises really weren’t too bad, Greg thought, especially with the football to keep him from being bored out of his brain. He was just finishing up – well, he’d lost track, but he’d probably done enough – when Mycroft returned with enough tinned spaghetti and toast for them both.

“Really?” Greg asked. “You’re going to eat this too?”

“An acquired taste,” Mycroft admitted.

“And how long since you acquired a taste for it?” Greg asked with a smile.

“I decline to answer,” Mycroft said, his face flushing. He handed Greg the toast plate. “Suffice it to say, I have a standing order. In case Sherlock arrives unannounced, you understand.”

“Of course,” Greg grinned. He accepted the plate, the warmth spreading through his chest not only from the spaghetti but the intimacy of Mycroft’s admission. Other than whomever did his groceries, who else would know this detail? That the man who could probably order literally anything he wanted to eat chose tinned spaghetti sometimes? It was these details Greg had missed in his previous relationships. The trust it showed soothed an injury he hadn’t even been aware was still smarting.

They spoke quietly as they ate, Greg still watching the football with one eye. When they’d finished Mycroft cleared the plates while Greg carefully stood.

“I’ll just stop at the bathroom,” Greg said. He dropped a kiss on Mycroft’s mouth before heading into the bathroom. His bruises were fairly spectacular at the moment, despite what he’d said earlier. Mycroft had offered some kind of cream stuff but the pain of rubbing it in meant Greg didn’t use it as often as he should. They’d fade eventually, and he’d rather not antagonise his ribs more than strictly necessary.

Mycroft was already waiting for him when he walked into the bedroom. Greg smiled, easing himself carefully onto the bed. He’d figured out the best way to lie down and get comfortable, and Mycroft waited patiently for him to stop wiggling before he spoke.

“I know you’ve said I don’t need to apologise again,” Mycroft began.

“You don’t,” Greg replied immediately.

“But I feel responsible,” Mycroft said. “Had I simply been honest you would not have walked out of the house that day.”

“You didn’t tell me to leave,” Greg said, patient despite the fact that they’d had this conversation several times. Mycroft was not one to repeat himself, and the fact he kept bringing it up should have been irritating, but for some reason it wasn’t. Greg could hear the contrition in his voice, and when he was looking, the pain in Mycroft’s eyes. He figured he’d let the conversation run its course. Time was something he had plenty of at the moment.

“I know,” Mycroft said. “But I didn’t make you want to stay, either.”

Greg sighed. “Clearly, you did. What did I do when I got to a phone? Called John, and got him to call you.”

“True,” Mycroft conceded.

“And you were hardly responsible for Trisha’s brothers’ actions,” Greg said. He sighed again. “I didn’t even know they existed,” he said, his mind following a well-worn path but this time, he spoke the words. “She and I were hardly well matched.”

Mycroft was silent, then he asked, “How did you meet?”

Greg blinked. “Jesus,” he muttered, remembering that time. “My divorce was…ugly. Not on my side. But Amanda wasn’t happy to be getting divorced, so she just…” Greg trailed off. “I fought it for a while but it was exhausting. And expensive. Easier just to give her what she wanted.”

“Which was?” Mycroft asked.

“Everything,” Greg said. “Almost.”

Mycroft was silent for a while, his finger tracing a design on Greg’s hand. It was slow and grounding and Greg focused on it as his mouth worked.

“So I wasn’t feeling great,” Greg said. “Living in a shitty little place, just about half a dozen boxes of stuff to my name. All the crappy things she said about me during proceedings running through my head.” He huffed a careful laugh. “I never thought anyone would be interested. Must have been easy pickings for someone like Trisha.”

“She approached you,” Mycroft murmured.

“In the pub after work. Waited ‘til most of the others from the office had gone.” Greg shook his head at himself. He’d been so desperate for someone to show him he was still desirable, still worth something to someone, he’d barely paid any attention to the people warning him off her.

“I imagine she was skilled at choosing vulnerable men,” Mycroft said carefully.

“Yeah,” Greg muttered. “Anyway. Things weren’t much better when we moved in. When I moved in with her, really.”

“You weren’t well suited,” Mycroft murmured.

“I was the last to see it, obviously.” Greg sighed again, dragging out the last details. “And by then, I couldn’t afford to move out. She was…high maintenance,” he said.

“Expensive,” Mycroft clarified.

“Very,” Greg said. “Although it sounds like I was supporting her brothers as well, so.”

Mycroft was silent again.

“And even after all that,” Greg said, trying to laugh but failing when he couldn’t get around the lump in his throat, “when she kicked me out…” he stopped, unable to go on.

 _I was a fucking mess,_ he wanted to say.

“It was devastating,” Mycroft offered instead.

“Yes,” Greg whispered. “Even if it was shit, at least it was something.”

Mycroft didn’t speak again for a long time. His fingers were still tracing patterns, and it was soothing, the steady pace. Eventually he raised Greg’s hand to his lips, gently kissing the skin as though it was the most precious thing he could imagine.

“You are worth so much more than that,” Mycroft said. When Greg opened his eyes to look, Mycroft’s were closed, even as he spoke. “And I will do whatever I can to show you.”

“In the hospital,” Greg said, quietly, “when you admitted you hoped I would see you differently if we were under the same roof, I said you were gorgeous.”

“You did,” Mycroft replied, and Greg could feel his mouth curving in a smile against his palm.

“And I forget what else I said,” Greg said, “but it was what I could see. Pretty superficial stuff.”

“Well dressed, clearly well off, powerful,” Mycroft supplied.

“Sounds right,” Greg agreed. He paused, arranging his thoughts. “What I didn’t say was the rest. Most of it I’ve only see properly in the last week or so, but,” he swallowed, “I like it. You’re gentle and thoughtful and funny, and I don’t see how you’d really want someone…an old worn out copper.”

“Worn down and worn out are not the same,” Mycroft said calmly. “Recuperation is all that is needed.”

“Maybe,” Greg allowed, determined to finish what he wanted to say, “But as you said if we can agree to disagree for the moment, maybe we can change each other’s minds.”

“Perhaps we can,” Mycroft agreed. “But not right now.”

“No,” Greg said, feeling himself begin to drift away. “But soon.”


	6. Chapter 6

“But you’re injured, Gregory!”

Greg groaned with frustration. “I _was_ injured, Mycroft. Past tense.”

“Five weeks out of hospital does not mean you are entirely healed!”

Greg sighed, cupping Mycroft’s face with one hand. They were not going to have this bloody argument again. He’d waited five weeks for this, and Mycroft’s overzealous concern was not going to stop it happening tonight.

“Mycroft,” Greg said, looking intently into his eyes. “I had a blunt and very embarrassing conversation with John today. He says as long as we are careful and don’t do anything too experimental, we will be fine.”

“ _I_ will be fine, _I_ was not brutally att-”

Greg cut Mycroft off this time with the simple action of kissing him. He’d learned it early and it was a tactic that almost never failed him.

This time was one of the exceptions.

“Gregory,” Mycroft started, pulling out of the kiss, but Greg was not to be dissuaded, kissing along his jaw and down the side of his neck instead.

“Mmm?” Greg hummed, deliberately making his mouth wet, breathing hot air on the places he’d kissed. He was pulling out all the stops today, fairness be damned.

“Gre…oh…we can’t,” Mycroft whispered. His fingers were grasping into Greg’s waist, sending entirely the opposite message. “Your ribs…your knee…”

“Don’t need my knee if I’m lying down,” Greg said, pulling Mycroft closer. “And as long as you don’t squeeze me, or put your weight on me, my ribs will be fine.”

“They will?” Mycroft asked.

Greg’s heart thumped and a powerful shot of arousal coursed through his body, coalescing in his groin. “They will.” He smiled against Mycroft’s skin, pressing his face into the spot he loved, right where Mycroft’s neck became shoulder. “I don’t know about you but I can’t wait another day, Mycroft. Not another hour.”

Mycroft shuddered at the words, and Greg chased it, kissing hard along muscle as Mycroft arched his neck.

“Very well,” Mycroft whispered.

“To be very, _very_ clear,” Greg said, his heart thumping a fast beat, “I want you inside me.”

Mycroft stilled, fingers clenched hard into Greg’s shirt. He swallowed, the shape of his neck changing against Greg’s lips. He was still pressing kisses, but now they were light, filling in the spaces in the conversation as he waited for Mycroft to reply. They had talked about this, kind of; using the kind of euphemisms a couple not quite at ease with that part of their relationship tended to use. Greg was practical enough to know he’d need to be ready if and when this conversation finally turned the corner, so he’d been using the hours Mycroft was at work to make sure his body would be ready.

“Really?” Mycroft asked, the tremor matching the uncertain tone.

“Yes,” Greg breathed. He planted one more kiss, hard and hot, before pulling away to look at Mycroft.

It was a beautiful sight. His eyes were hooded, mouth open as he breathed hard. The pink staining his cheeks was exactly what Greg thought it would be; such pale skin would show every moment of emotion.

“You know I’ve been back at work,” Greg said.

“Light duties only,” Mycroft replied.

“Yes, Sally’s been going out when we need her to,” Greg replied. “Well, I’ve had time to think about this. And when you’re not here, I’ve had time to…get ready.”

Watching Mycroft understand what Greg was alluding to was mesmerising. His eyes went wide, searching Greg’s then dropping to his mouth and back. Another swallow, another response, but this time the uncertainty was paired with desire, deep and heavy.

“Really.”

“Really,” Greg whispered, pressing the word to Mycroft’s lips. The kiss was not like earlier, satisfied with its own existence; this was more, wanting more, deliberately stoking the desire smouldering in Greg’s belly. He could feel Mycroft responding, kissing back with more fervour, though his arms were still light around Greg’s waist. Normally Greg was careful to keep his hips back, or at least ensure their press was gentle. Not this time. Now was the time to show Mycroft the effect he was having when they’d barely started.

Greg shifted closer, rolling his hips slowly forward until he could feel his erection pressing into Mycroft’s thigh.

“Oh!”

Mycroft broke the kiss, his head dropping forward as Greg kept moving until it was clear he was rubbing against Mycroft deliberately, the rhythm slow and crudely reminiscent of what he wanted to do. The shudder coursed through both their bodies; Greg had no idea where it started, but by the time it finished Mycroft’s hands had slid lower, gripping his hips and matching his rhythm, evidence of his own arousal pushing into Greg’s belly. The matching hardness made Greg groan, their kiss messy as both gasped, the new intensity sparking between them.

“We need to get to bed,” Greg said breathlessly. “Right now.”

“Yes,” Mycroft agreed.

It was slow, stopping to kiss every few paces, and at the bedroom door, Greg pressed Mycroft back into the wall with his palms, holding him there until his hips could catch up. Mycroft’s head thumped back as Greg ground into him, their erections pressing into each other, sliding past when Mycroft thrust forward.

“Bed,” Mycroft managed, and Greg nodded, taken by surprise when Mycroft surged forward, hands cupping his face for a kiss deep and demanding. It was the perfect reversal of their former dynamic, and a blast of arousal shot through Greg as he sagged, giving in to Mycroft’s mouth.

“Jesus,” Greg gasped when Mycroft let him go.

“Too much?” Mycroft asked breathlessly.

“Hell no,” Greg replied with a grin. “Perfect.”

They breathed together for a second before Greg scrabbled for the hem of his shirt, breaking the spell. Mycroft did the same, and in barely a moment they were undressed, surrounded by a sea of discarded clothes. Greg was watching Mycroft, his eyes automatically going to Greg’s bruises. They were more or less faded now, only the faintest shadow remaining, but he knew Mycroft needed to see it for himself.

With a deep breath, Mycroft looked up, meeting Greg’s eyes. The desire and hesitance were warring again, and when he spoke it was low and intense.

“If I hurt you, even for a second, even just…discomfort,” Mycroft said, “you are to tell me immediately.”

Greg nodded.

“Even the slightest amount,” Mycroft continued earnestly.

“I know,” Greg said, stepping closer. He hadn’t even taken a moment to let his eyes wander down Mycroft’s nude body, so captured was he by the expression on his face. Long and pale was all he registered, with an erection standing out to match his own.

“Will you let me...show you?” Mycroft whispered. “How extraordinary you are, Gregory.”

Greg swallowed hard, nodding. The words would have sounded silly coming from some of his past lovers, but from Mycroft they were sincere and somehow more thrilling. Permission given, Mycroft’s eyes grew more self-assured. He closed the gap between them, and the touch as their cocks touched made Greg gasp, but Mycroft did not pause. He moved in until their chests were pressed together, cocks nestled side by side between their bodies. Greg wondered what he was planning, but it was simply a gentle hug.

Hands sweeping slowly up and down his back, slow and warm, and Mycroft’s face pressed into his shoulder. Greg brought his arms up too, looping gently around Mycroft’s waist, caressing the soft skin there. It was quiet and more honest than Greg could remember.

Mycroft’s fingers paused on a knot of scar tissue above Greg’s waist, then moved on, covering as much skin as possible, still slow, still warm.

“Play fighting when I was a kid,” Greg murmured. “Some other kid was using a stick for a sword.”

Mycroft didn’t reply, and his hands didn’t still.

Greg closed his eyes and stopped thinking.

Mycroft turned his head, kissing slowly along Greg’s shoulder. It was careful, and Greg had the oddest sensation that took him a couple of moments to identify.

He felt important. Not like his ego was getting a boost; but as though Mycroft was trying to tell him something. As though he thought Greg was important, and he was trying to show him. He couldn’t remember someone taking their time with him like this, and Greg’s heart flipped at the realisation. This was the difference between ‘making love’ and ‘fucking’. How had it taken him so long to figure that out?

Mycroft moved down his chest, ducking low enough Greg had to let his hands rest on Mycroft’s shoulders instead. He looked down, watching as Mycroft’s lips pressed to a nipple, seeing his fingers digging into his shoulders in the periphery. All philosophical thoughts flittered away as arousal stabbed through him and he groaned.

“Good?” Mycroft murmured.

“Good,” Greg echoed.

He opened his eyes and focused on his own fingers, his tanned skin dark against the freckled skin of Mycroft’s shoulders. He could feel Mycroft moving along his torso and tensed as he reached the still healing ribs, but Mycroft knew.

“Gentle,” Mycroft whispered, his lips barely brushing the skin. His hands were still caressing Greg’s back, though as he moved down the sore ribs he shifted, and Greg realised he was kneeling in front of him.

“Jesus,” Greg whispered as Mycroft explored his hip, hands settling on Greg’s arse now. His cock jumped, tantalisingly close to Mycroft’s face but touching nothing; it was more arousing than he thought, being ignored as his hip was explored instead.

It felt like an age before Mycroft’s wanderings turned inwards, and Greg felt himself holding his breath until Mycroft deliberately raised his eyes and dragged his cheek along the length of Greg’s cock.

“Fuck,” Greg spat, tightening his fingers in Mycroft’s hair. When had that even happened? He kept jumping from moment to moment, his mind unable to process everything that was happening at once.

This is the important bit, his mind told him, ignoring the fingers tangled with red strands. The bit where Mycroft’s eyes are looking at yours, and he’s opening his mouth.

Definitely pay attention to this part.

The long, slow lick lasted for aeons, and Greg’s head dropped back as he groaned long and loud, the only way to get some of the crackling energy out or he would explode. He had no idea how Mycroft was doing it, making his touch so incredible, but every point of contact felt electric.

As Mycroft’s tongue reached the head of his cock, Greg braced for…something. Whatever was next. He had no idea what it was, but he needed to be ready.

A kiss, soft and slow, tongue winding around his glans, and a groan escaped Greg. Mycroft didn’t stop moving, pressing kisses down his cock, one hand coming around to steady him. It wrapped around the base – a necessary action, given how much his cock was jumping. Every kiss sent a thrill through him and every single one ended up at his groin.

Greg was just wondering how long he’d be able to last doing this when Mycroft stood up, one hand still wrapped around his cock, stroking him slowly. The eyes that met his were dark, pupils blown wide with his own desire.

Jesus.

Greg hadn’t realised this was having such an effect on Mycroft, too.

“I wanted to spend a long time doing this,” Mycroft said, his voice deeper and more desperate than Greg had imagined, “but I don’t know if I can.” He leaned forward, pressing a kiss to Greg’s mouth, moaning at the contact. “I need to be inside you.”

“Christ, yes,” Greg replied. He kissed Mycroft, curling his hand around Mycroft’s neck to hold him close. They kissed deep and slow, neither breaking as their breathing grew ragged. Greg’s head was swimming as they parted, panting into the air between them.

“Lie down,” Mycroft said, giving Greg one last stroke before pressing on his shoulders. Greg sat down, scooting down the bed as Mycroft opened a drawer, taking out a bottle and a box.

He joined Greg on the bed, and the new position - lying on his side, Mycroft moving close – made Greg’s heart beat faster. They kissed again, Greg rolling a little onto his back as Mycroft stroked his skin. Such gentle touching still made Greg feel treasured; Mycroft’s fingers were trembling against his skin. It was new and incredible and Greg arched into it.

“Your ribs?” Mycroft asked, pressing a kiss below Greg’s ear.

“Fine,” Greg said through another groan. “Please, Mycroft…”

“Patience,” Mycroft replied. He kissed down Greg’s neck, still exploring or teasing, Greg couldn’t tell. It was almost peripheral when his hand slipped down Greg’s back and around his arse. Greg moved without much encouragement, his heart thumping as Mycroft’s intentions became clear.

“Please,” Greg gasped as Mycroft’s slick fingers circled his entrance without pressure. It was temptation, pushing Greg closer to desperation with every patient circle. “I’m ready Mycroft…please…”

Mycroft moved again, kissing Greg deeply as he pressed two fingers against Greg’s entrance.

“Yes?” he asked again.

“Yes,” Greg groaned, tilting his hips backwards. “Please, Myc…please…”

Another kiss that would have taken his breath away had Mycroft not breached him at the same time, two fingers sinking smoothly into his body.

“Greg…” Mycroft gasped, surprised at how easily the muscle gave way.

“Told you,” Greg said, smiling breathlessly. “Oh…Mycroft…”

He wanted to say more but Mycroft wasn’t stopping and Greg could feel those long fingers moving closer and closer…

“Jesus!” Greg groaned, bucking as Mycroft’s fingers skirted each side of his prostate.

Mycroft eased his fingers back, and settled into a slow rhythm, matching their kisses. Greg felt his hips rocking along with it; each motion brought his cock forward, brushing against Mycroft’s. They gasped in unison, until they were just moving together, panting into each other’s mouths. Greg’s eyes were closed, his whole being focussed on Mycroft and all the points of contact they shared.

He’d reached the moment where he needed more when Mycroft eased his hand back, pressing another kiss in front of his ear.

“Gregory,” he whispered, his voice drawn thin with desire.

“Please,” Greg replied immediately. “Please…I want you inside me now.”

Mycroft kissed him again, and when he pulled back his eyes focused on Greg, expression concerned. “Are you sure,” he asked, “I would not hurt you for anything.”

Greg reached up, smiling as he touched Mycroft’s face. “Please,” he whispered again.

Mycroft swallowed and nodded. “Roll onto your back?” he asked.

Greg did, breathing deeply, a small part of his brain pointing out that his exercises had been useful after all. Mycroft appeared over him, and Greg smiled, pulling him gently into a kiss as he moved to lie between Greg’s legs, weight carefully on his arms.

Greg held the kiss, moaning into it as he felt Mycroft’s cock press against his entrance. Mycroft broke the kiss, pulling back enough to look at Greg as he pushed slowly inwards, slick and wide. A long slow breath out helped ground Greg, a groan mixing with it as Mycroft moved deeper into him.

“Christ…” Greg breathed, the physical stretch and emotional weight of the moment combining to be almost overwhelming. Mycroft paused, eyes watchful. “Don’t stop,” he added, hands sweeping along Mycroft’s back.

Mycroft leaned down to kiss Greg again, easing further until Greg felt him gasp.

They remained still for a long moment, bodies getting used to each other. Finally, Greg felt the discomfort morph slowly until he needed to move. He moved with a slow roll of his hips, ready to stop if it was too soon. As Mycroft slid inside him Greg gasped.

“Yes,” he managed, pressing his fingertips into Mycroft’s back. “Please…”

They started slowly, rolling together, breathing together…Greg couldn’t remember the last time making love had felt like this. Intimate, something shared between two people instead of sating a biological need. The arousal was flowing through him, waves of pleasure carrying him through endless moments. The world was just him and Mycroft, moving with each other, breathing and skin sliding; his eyes were closed, but he felt Mycroft’s breath across his shoulder, the shuddering air cool where it passed over his glistening skin.

“Gregory,” Mycroft breathed. “Open…your eyes.”

Greg did, blinking, the edges of his arousal sharpening as he met Mycroft’s eyes. They were still moving together, an Mycroft brushed his fingers against Greg’s face. He lowered himself, kissing Greg with such tenderness it almost made him cry. That had definitely never happened before.

“Watch me,” Mycroft said, panting. He reached down, guiding one of Greg’s hands to his own cock. “Watch me. I want to see you…”

Greg gasped at his own touch and the sudden certainty that he would come looking into Mycroft’s eyes. He started stroking himself, remembering when Mycroft was doing it for him. The sharp edge of his arousal was building now, and he was chasing it, his hips moving faster, hand tighter on his cock as it edged higher.

“Mycroft,” he panted, feeling it grip tighter low in his belly, and he tilted his hips until Mycroft’s next thrust brushed his prostate.

“Oh, fuck…” Greg groaned, fighting to keep his eyes open. “Myc…roft, Jesus…please don’t stop…” he was panting, and now there was no need to chase anything, it was building without effort, and there was no way he could avoid it, the pleasure throbbing in his groin until he couldn’t contain it any further.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he panted, and there was no way he could stop his eyes closing briefly as his pleasure crested, flashing white hot through him. Every fibre of his being was on fire, flashing pleasure in waves. When he could control himself Greg opened his eyes, finding Mycroft. He was still moving inside Greg, his face contorted as he held off his own orgasm.

“Do it,” Greg said, waves of pleasure still rolling through him. “Please, do it…Mycroft…”

He watched as Mycroft’s face frozen, eyes locked on Greg’s, mouth open as his body shuddered and he buried himself deep inside Greg. Greg felt a second shudder ripple through Mycroft, his hips thrusting uncontrollably a little before his muscles relaxed and he slumped, dropping on Greg’s uninjured side.

Greg wrapped his arms around Mycroft, shifting his weight to land on the mattress instead of his ribs. He winced as Mycroft slid from his body, adjusting his hips as Mycroft rolled away to deal with the condom. Greg was breathing deeply, still feeling the last bursts of his orgasm through his body.

“Your exercises have been worthwhile,” Mycroft murmured, returning with a cloth. He smiled, cleaning Greg’s belly before dropping the cloth over the side of the bed.

“Yes,” Greg replied, smiling as Mycroft moved closer again. “Maybe if I’d realised _how_ useful I might have been more enthusiastic.”

“Really,” Mycroft replied. He settled close to Greg, eyes warm and soft as he leaned up to kiss him. “I think you were plenty enthusiastic.”

“I could say the same,” Greg replied. He smiled, the warmth from Mycroft’s smile washing over him. “Thank you.”

“You weren’t hurt?” Mycroft asked, and his slight grimace told Greg the question had slipped out unintentionally.

“No,” Greg assured him. “You were…amazing.”

Mycroft smiled, blushing fiercely. “You are easy to-” He stopped abruptly, his blush deepening.

Greg knew exactly how he would finish that sentence, and from the look on Mycroft’s face he had been going to do the same.

“So are you,” Greg murmured, pressing his lips to Mycroft’s. “You made me feel loved. Thank you.” He swallowed, pushing down the lump in his throat. “It’s been a long time since…I felt that.”

“You are,” Mycroft whispered. His hand shook as he brushed the side of Greg’s face. “You are so,” he swallowed, “loved.”

Greg smiled. “So are you,” he said.

Mycroft kissed him again before lying down, his arm across Greg’s chest. His touch was light across Greg’s ribs; he knew Mycroft was being careful with his injured ribs, but really…

He squirmed, gasping, “That tickles!”

“Tickles?” Mycroft repeated.

“I told you I was healed,” Greg replied.

“Not entirely,” Mycroft countered.

“We cannot have this argument again,” Greg said, though he couldn’t hold in his smile. “I think we’ve proven I can do everything I might want to,” he grinned, “so anything more is a bonus.”

Mycroft pursed his lips, his own smile breaking through. “You might be able to do everything you want to do,” he said, eyes sparkling mischievously, “but I can’t say I have exhausted my list.”

Greg’s eyebrows rose. “You have a list?”

“Oh yes,” Mycroft replied, reaching up to kiss Greg again. “Extensive.”

“Can I assume you won’t mind if it takes some time?” Greg asked.

“Not at all,” Mycroft replied. “I foresee it taking a considerable time.”

“Helping me with my recuperation?” Greg asked.

“If that’s what you’d like to call it,” Mycroft murmured.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for reading. :)


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